We were at the mall, just finishing up some shopping, when my daughter suddenly froze. Her face went pale, and she grabbed my hand. “We have to leave. Now,” she said, panic rising in her voice. I thought she might be feeling sick, so I reassured her we’d head out soon.

But her grip tightened. “No, Mom. We have to go.”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting silently in the car in the parking lot. I turned to her gently and asked, “Sweetheart, what happened back there?”

Mara, just 13 years old, was visibly shaking. Her eyes darted nervously toward the mall entrance. “I saw him,” she whispered. “Mr. Cardenas.”

My heart dropped. Javier Cardenas. A name I hadn’t heard in years, but one that haunted me. He was our former landlord back when we lived in that small apartment after my divorce. He was always overly familiar—always watching. Once, he even showed up at Mara’s school, claiming he was delivering something for me. That was the final straw. I reported him and moved us two states away. We hadn’t looked back—until now.

“You’re sure it was him?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

She nodded, tears forming. “He had that scar by his ear. He saw me. That’s why I panicked.”

I gripped the wheel, fighting my own fear. “Okay, we’re leaving. We’re going home.”

The whole drive back, my thoughts spiraled. How could he be here? Was it coincidence? Was he following us? Did he know where we lived now?

When we got home, I locked every window and door. Mara stuck by me the rest of the night, unusually quiet.

Then my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “Nice seeing you again. Beautiful daughter.”

I felt sick. My hands trembled as I blocked the number. I didn’t tell Mara—I didn’t want to terrify her even more. But I knew this wasn’t a coincidence. He had found us.

The next morning, I contacted the police. Officer Delaney listened carefully, filed a report, and offered to increase patrols near our home. “He hasn’t made a direct threat,” he said, “but keep us updated if anything changes.”

“Yet,” I repeated quietly, the word ringing in my ears.

The days that followed were filled with forced routine and underlying dread. I walked Mara to school. I checked our surroundings constantly. I kept my phone close and my eyes open.

Then I got a call from someone I hadn’t heard from in years—Nora, our old neighbor from the apartment complex.

“Shannon? I heard you’re back in town,” she said.

“I’m not,” I told her. “We live two states away now.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Well, Javier’s brother, Miguel, moved to your area a few months ago. Javier’s been staying with him off and on. That might be how he found you.”

My legs nearly gave out. It wasn’t random. He had found us.

Nora continued, her voice low. “He’s not well. He’s been saying he needs to ‘make things right’ with people who hurt him. Be careful, Shannon.”

That night, after Mara fell asleep, I sat in the living room in silence, heart pounding. This wasn’t just fear anymore—it was a real threat. I had to act.

The next morning, I called a lawyer about filing for a restraining order. Then I reached out to a private security specialist named Brendan. He came to our home that day and walked the perimeter.